Clay of My Clay The Dorfl Truth
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: This never happened. It depends on a differnt person being there at the end of "feet of Clay". But he wasn't. So it's a horrible little fantasy from my horrible little mind. It's about sex. Not just gender. A different sort of sex. Read on.


This never happened, right? In the canon, in **_Feet of Clay_**, Angua rescued Cheery Littlebottom, who was unfortunately wearing her silver vest, from becoming a very large ornamental candle. Carrot and Detritus then got Dorfl's constituent pieces to Chalky's all-night pottery, intimidated Chalky into assisting, and remade him with a tongue.

But what if not Cheery, but Nobby Nobbs, had been holding on to a greasy conveyor belt over a trough of molten wax, and had to be rescued by Angua?

Dorfl's subsequent life might have been somewhat, er, different… but as I say it chose not to happen this way. This is pure fantasy. As I say, this is an outpouring from the Shades of my mind, and is quite possibly a sick nasty fantasy taken to its logical conclusion. You judge.

_______________________________________-

"_We can rebuild him!" _Carrot shouted, hoarsely. "We have the pottery!"

Angua came from behind a stack of boxes, coughing and retching and glaring at Nobby. She had just performed the greatest leap of her wolf's life, catching Nobby in her jaws and bodily pushing him clear of the molten wax inches beneath his feet.

Right now, she was paying the penalty incurred for any creature so incautious as to get a goodly bite of Nobby's tunic and undervest, not to mention coming so close to his skin with her mouth and nose. She'd guessed the new Dwarf, Cheery Littlebottom, wore a silver mailshirt underneath her Watch regulation issue front-and-back. Compared to Nobby, she'd far rather have bitten that. The burns wouldn't nearly have been so unpleasant as… She glared at Nobby again and then threw up.

"Must be the shock" Nobby mused. "She come pretty close to landing in that hot tallow when she got me down. Never be able to get it out of her fur if she had."

"When you're quite finished, Nobby. Help gather the bits together so we can get him to a kiln." Carrot suggested. Seeing the Captain was only using one hand – a crossbow bolt still protruded from the palm of the other – Nobby hurriedly set to, gathering as many shards of broken terracotta as he could find.

_____________________________________-

"You got most of der pieces" Chalky the Troll said, professional interest taking over from dull resentment. "I got some kiln cement here. We can rebuild him."

Nobby listened to the subsequent discussion on the ethics of giving a golem a tongue with only half an ear. Watching and intermittently helping Carrot and Chalky with sorting and regluing the bits together, a new idea was nagging at him. Why stop at just a tongue? He looked at the smooth expanse of golem, shaped roughly but not exactly like that of a man.

_If Carrot wants him to be more human, it in't just a _**tongue**_ he needs… _

Nobby waited for Carrot and Chalky to finally give way to sleep, slumping either side of the Slab-filled Detritus.

_Carrot's a nice lad, but he'd only argue and stop me doing this…. No complications this way. _

It is said that no doors are closed to Death. Nobby Nobbs, a talent long ago lost to the Thieves' Guild, could run him a close second. Closely imitating what he'd seen Chalky do, Nobby opened the kiln doors, stood back for the blast of heat to dissipate, then rolled the dormant golem out on its cradle while it was hot, but not unbearably so.

_Now let's see. We need a long thick piece of clay rolled out _here_, a bit more bulbous at the end. That goes around - here. And two rounded lumps of clay, pressed slightly together, going just about here. A little bit of sculpting and modelling up… he'll thank me for this tomorrow – and he can go back into the furnace. There! A job well done! He'll thank me for this when he wakes up! _

Nobby left for his home and bed a little bit later. A couple of hours later, Commander Vimes turned up to find Carrot asleep and Detritius still drugged-up. He was reluctantly contemplating waking them, when there was a shivering crash and the kiln doors burst open. Vimes turned to contemplate the reborn Dorfl.

"You're coming with me!" he said.

"Yes!" said the golem.

"Only… I'd be happier if you wore something around your waist. Look - this must be some sort of practical joke. I only ever said to give you a tongue. There's a hammer and chisel here…"

"NO." said the golem, crossing its hands protectively over its… newly added parts. Vimes goggled and shook his head in disbelief.

Vimes handed it an asbestos fire blanket. He nodded. "I'll find out who did this to you, and when I discover it was Corporal Nobbs, his feet won't touch…"

Dorfl fastened a makeshift asbestos kilt around him.

"No. It Was Kindly Meant. I Believe My Destiny Is To Be Male."

____________________________________--

Dorfl went on to become a valued and respected member of the Watch. Cheery Littlebottom devised an official kilt for him, with the Watch badge sewn into the design, together with random occult symbols to mystify and hopefully terrify any perp the golem had occasion to detain. As long as it was on, Vimes and the others could forget what had been built on underneath.

But one day, Dorfl, partnered with Constable von Humpeding, had to attend the Post Office in the course of his duties. A new complication was about to happen.

Sally von Humpeding was to say later that she had never laughed so loud nor so long. Reporting to the formidable Miss Iodine Maccalariat to announce they were in the building to investigate reports of casual theft, she had noticed that the Post Office's feminised golem, Gladys, was industriously mopping the trading floor behind the counters. To most people, Gladys was a clay mountain in a gingham dress: her desired gender was a courtesy detail.

But to Dorfl, she caused things to happen that most onlookers, and there were eventually quite a lot of them, would have previously sworn solemn and binding oaths concerning the sheer impossibility of such things happening. Even the Gamblers' Guild would have placed improbably low odds on what happened next…

In front of an increasingly horrified and disgusted Iodine Maccalariat, the front of Dorfl's modesty kilt suddenly tented and moved upwards and outwards. In the middle of explaining the reasons for heir visit, Sally saw Miss Maccalariat's eyes widen and bulge outwards like two boiled eggs being inflated with a bicycle pump. Suddenly bereft of words, her jaw fell open and she was reduced to pointing at the source of her discomfort, her index finger wobbling with shock. Sally looked down and to her right and, being more worldly than Miss Maccalariat, who by then was pounding furiously on the alarm bell on her desk, spluttered with laughter.

The scene that met Moist von Lipwig's eyes as he rushed to his Office Manager's aid was one of a horrified and scandalised Miss Maccalariat, pushing her chair back so far from her desk that she was practically in he next room, pointing at a large and obvious set of male genitals protruding from underneath a suddenly inadequate kilt which, owing to Dorfl's size and her seating position, were at eye level. The Watchwoman rolling on the floor laughing herself sick was a courtesy detail, whilst Gladys was in the middle of dropping her mop and fleeing.

"Please. Miss Maccalariat. I Was Not Looking At You." said Dorfl, and it was true. For as Gladys rushed from the room, Dorfl's inadvertent erection subsided somewhat, but was still enough to preserve an uninterrupted line of sight to a large and impressive set of golem testes.

Moist von Lipwig sighed. He turned to Deputy Postmaster Groat, and said "Tulliver, send my compliments to Miss Dearheart, would you, and ask her if she can drop by the Post Office at her earliest convenience, would you? Add that it might be a good idea if her earliest convenience covered the next five minutes? Tell her it's an …unusual… situation involving golems. Oh, and get a couple of Watchmen here who _don't_ have a sense of humour, would you? Thank you…"

_________________________________-

Everyone who attended the session at the Palace had to admit it was probably the most _unusual_ case of Indecent Exposure ever heard at the Assizes. Vimes himself had turned up to the chaotic scene at the Post Office, fought his way trough an Ank-Morpork crowd enjoying the street theatre, heard the facts, banged his head briefly on the wall in sheer disbelief, and signally failed to talk Miss Maccalariat out of laying charges.

With a packed public gallery, Miss Cripslock of the _**Times **_industriously taking notes, and Vetinari in the chair with Mr Slant on hand as legal advisor to the City, all the big names had been wheeled out.

Sam Vimes found it all to be positively bloody _embarrassing. _One of his own Watchmen, OK then a Watch _golem_, caught out in an act of indecent exposure. Damn and blast bloody Nobby for giving him a … well, furnishing him with a full set of family jewels, out of some Nobbs-like sense of what was right and fair, maybe some notion that every Watchman regardless of species should stand an equal risk of being kicked inna rocks at some point in their career.

Vimes forced himself to listen. That bloody opinionated young woman from the Golem Trust was taking the floor to speak for Dorfl.

"Up until now, all golems have been neither male nor female, but _neuter_. WE have always assumed male-ness and given them the title of "mister" as a courtesy detail. Such as the Palace employee called Mister Pump, for instance. This assumption is probably because there is no such thing as a neuter gender in the human race, and we feel deeply uncertain about things we can't pigeon-hole as either male or female. We might call them "mister", but the golems themselves have done what they've always done, which is to get on with it. Which my golems have done for thousands of years!"

"And your point, miss Dearheart?" Vetinari asked, patiently.

"My point is that ascribing active gender to golems is a phenomena that has only begun comparatively recently. It's new. It's uncharted water. Nobody could predict what way it's going to go, least of all the golems themselves! I mean, Lord Vetinari, I only agreed to the Gladys experiment with _extreme _reluctance, and only because Moi – the Postmaster General, and Miss Maccalariat herself, were prevailing on me to agree!"

"So the plaintiff in this case was in part responsible for the gendering of golems? Interesting!" Vetinari remarked, with a look across to Miss Maccalariat, who returned his gaze stonily.

"The gendering of _one_ golem, my Lord, and that to the female gender. " Adora Belle corrected him. "That in itself was an experiment, and it was fascinating to watch and observe how Gladys assimilated femininity to the point where any observer looking at her would unhesitatingly call her "she". And she appears to have learnt from that and integrated her female personality admirably. But this other thing!"

She half-turned to glare at Vimes.

"I wish I'd been _told_ about this. Right from the start. I consider what was done to Dorfl is a crude joke performed in very sick taste. An act of cruelty, even. If I could only find out who it was…" She scowled, darkly.

Vimes made a mental note to take Nobby off any patrol beats going _anywhere near_ the Golem Trust headquarters. And she lives in Dolly Sisters, doesn't she?

"Sir, I concede that Dorfl behaved inappropriately in the presence of Miss Maccalariat and Gladys. He needs to be taught that this is something that adult males of any species should only allow to be seen in private, in the presence of a consenting adult of the desired gender. But I do not think he was responsible. Think about it. He was given what we now know to be functioning genitals. With no word of explanation or caution. In this is he is very like an adolescent boy getting inappropriate erections at the wrong times and places. At least that boy has parents and older role-models to privately caution him that he has to learn to control it. And most boys grow up into men who do. But this is a golem who's had a new dimension in life thrust upon him, so to speak, with no guidance or parenting. I ask you to be lenient on him, and to dismiss the case on the grounds of lack of responsibility and intention. Thank you."

Miss Dearheart sat down, next to the Postmaster General. There was a bit of whispered legal jargon between Vetinari and Slant.

"Commander Vimes, it is the case that Dorfl is under temporary suspension from the Watch, is he not?"

"He has to be, sir, like any Watchman facing a criminal charge."

"I think I understand the gist of what miss Dearheart has said. Are you prepared, as his employer, to act _in loco parentis_ to Constable Dorfl and, ah, advance his social education in this respect?"

Vimes took a deep breath. He'd done stranger things…

"Yes, sir. But as my investigation shows, witnesses to the event have testified that Dorfl's, ah, physical stimulus, only happened in the presence of an object of sexual arousal…"

As one, all eyes in the courtroom swivelled to look at Miss Maccalariat, who coloured visibly.

"By that, I mean the Post Office golem, Gladys. Which when you think about it, is not that strange nor unreasonable a thing to happen. If I can take this into account and keep him off patrol beats where he is likely to encounter her, I believe we can keep this thing contained."

"_It'd need a pretty big container!" _said a heckler.

Vetinari pounded the desk-top for silence.

"On behalf of the City and Council of Ankh-Morpork, I find the case to be proven. However, I am taking the mitigating circumstances advanced by Commander Vimes and Miss Dearheart of the Golem Trust into full account. Therefore the golem Dorfl is bound over to keep the peace for six months and released into the custody of Commander Vimes to resume his career as a Watchman. He is required to pay one week's salary into a charity, to be nominated by Miss Iodine Maccalariat, by way of compensation. If here is nothing else, the court will rise…"

___________________________________-

Nothing else happened for six months. Vimes had left Dorfl's personal instruction in the hands of his trusted sergeants, Fred Colon and Detritus, knowing both of them were men - well, and a troll – of the world, with the usual sergeant's ability to convey complicated ideas in simple manageable chunks.

Oddly enough, there had been no ragging or humour from fellow watchmen, most of whom were sympathetic, if anything. As Dorfl had the reputation of being one of the Watch's mobile riot screens, Vimes guessed that his fellow watchmen had weighed a joke now up against not having somewhere to shelter from flying bricks tomorrow, and decided to forego humour.

Then Fred Colon came to the office, and saluted.

"What's up, Fred?" Vimes inquired, sensing uncertainty in his old friend.

"Constable Dorfl, sir. He wants to ask your permission to… well, you'd better see him yourself."

"March him in, Fred."

Constable Dorfl marched ponderously in, and threw up a slow precise salute.

"At ease, Dorfl. You have a request?"

"Yes, Sir. I Wish To Ask Your Permission To Get Married."

Vimes prided himself on his ability to keep a completely straight face.

"May I enquire as to the lucky wo…female?"

"You May Sir. I Have Been "Walking-Out" For Some Time Now With The Female Golem Gladys, From The Post Office."

Vimes, face carefully wooden, nodded. It made a weird sort of sense. It worried him that he was seemingly the last to hear about it, though.

"And when does the happy day take place, Dorfl?"

"As Soon as It May Be Arranged, Sir"

"And have you given any thought to somewhere to live?"

"We Will Be Renting A House In Dolly Sisters, Sir. Miss Dearheart Was Most Helpful. She Is Also Arranging The Wedding."

"And where will the wedding be?"

"At The Temple Of Small Gods, Sir. I Would Have Preferred A Civil Partnership. But Gladys Is Very Traditional In This As In Many Other Things. I Did Not Want To Disappoint Her. Lady Sybil And Yourself Are Both, Of Course, Invited."

Vimes gave his consent. What more could he do?

______________________________________---

A group of strong-minded independent women met for a drink, discussed the impending marriage of the golem Gladys, and decided there was going to be a problem on the wedding night.. They then spent another bottle of Zlobenian vodka deciding what to do about it. Then they left the hairdressing salon that had hosted them (its owner was one of the previously mentioned group of independent strong-minded women and the rest were her customers. It was the natural place to meet up prior to a pub night) and went to seek another mutual acquaintance.

____________________________--

One of the strengths of the Gamblers' Guild was that it offered, in its upstairs games rooms, private neutral space where leaders of the City Guilds and other noteworthy citizens could discuss matters of importance or relevance over a drink and a hand of cards. For this reason, Guild leader Scrote Jones took very great care that the games offered here were all 100% straight and legit, with no marked cards, weighted dice, shaved balls **(1)** or mis-balanced roulette wheels in sight. By convention, Guild members only used these on sucker marks _outside_ Guild premises, or against each other. This had got the casino downstairs, which was open to the public, a deserved reputation as the only fair joint in town, a revolutionary idea of Scrote Jones' which was on its way to earning millions for the Guild.

In its own quiet way, this was moving the Gamblers' Guild up the totem pole, as a Guild with an increasing amount of money behind it, which quietly _facilitated_ and _brokered_ and _made available_ to the others. Even Vetinari himself had been known to drop by for a hand or two of canasta and a discreet, deniable meeting with the Guild president of choice.

Tonight, the participants at a hand of poker were in reflective mood.

"She took sick leave afterwards for two whole days" Moist von Lipwig said, studying his hand. "The first Maccalariat _ever_ to take a sickie!"

"Well, would you be surprised? Nobby sodding Nobbs went to town the night he made that little addition to Dorfl. His idea, apparently, of what a penis _should _look like if the Gods weren't so stingy with the raw material. He said he was doing Dorfl a _favour_. Can you imagine that?" Vimes gloomily asked for another card.

"And he stuck the thing into Iodine Maccalariat's _face_?" the third player bellowed a hearty laugh. "Full marks for bravery, that golem!"

Moist von Lipwig sighed.

"What I don't understand, and I'm hoping you can demystify me here, Arch-chancellor, is how the heck he can get an erection. Surely if it's made of clay and baked onto him in an oven, that's physically impossible?"

Mustrum Ridcully smiled a knowing smile.

"Moist, you're a clever young fella. Have you not heard of morphic resonance and the biomorphic field? That's the signal Life uses to tell a living creature what shape it should be and how it should react. Golems are alive, so they've got one. That scamp Nobbs attached a knob to Dorfl, in a manner of speakin', and the moment it was baked on to him, it stopped bein' just mere clay and became subject to the very special set of rules marked "Golem".

"You're askin' how he gets a stiffie. You might as well ask how his arms and legs can flex at the joints without the clay breakin'. Same creature, clay baked to look, act, and move like a man. In _every_ respect, laddie! Same principle. Because it's now _golem_ clay, y'see? And you know yerself, ninety per cent of sex happens in the head. He saw yer female golem, and it must have been like yer first two created humans in that Garden my brother the priest bangs on about! Sex is hardwired in the head, y'follow? Your old fella and your brain send each other messages. Golem probably couldn't help himself. You give him wedding tackle and make him a man, of course he'll stand to attention when he sees a female of his species! No doubt when they get married they'll be at it like hammer and tongs, like any other newlywed… what's wrong, laddie?"

"Oh shit." said Moist. "I saw Gladys before she opted to be female. Dorfl might be a fully functioning male. But…"

"Is she a fully functioning female?" Vimes completed the sentence for him. Moist shook his head.

"Oh, I say. Jolly bad luck for Dorfl if she _isn't_…"

"Oh hell" Vimes muttered. "Angua and the girls did say they were going to make sure Gladys knows the facts of life…"

Quiet fell over the poker table.

"Well," Ridcully reflected, "Dorfl had better pack a bloody big drill in his honeymoon luggage if he wants to consummate _this_ marriage."

"Bad taste there, that man." Vimes murmured, almost inaudibly.

________________________________________-

Meanwhile, the party of strong, independently minded ladies, had swept up Gladys and were knocking on a studio door in the Artists' Quarter on the left bank of the Ankh. (In Quirmian, _La Rive en sens d'horloge)_

"Alright, alright!" grumbled an unseen occupant. Angua barely had time to read the hadwritten notice on the door which read

_**Artist not at home to philistine reactionary Fascist bastards with hammers and nails, OK? **_

before it opened. A barefoot woman in shabby working overalls, with black hair and a face which from certain carefully considered angles might be called attractive, in a sullen, sulking way, scowled at them. She was buxom, n her early thirties, with an air about her that suggested an angry bulldog. One side of her head was encased in a bloodstained bandage which wholly covered one ear. Her other ear looked like it had been pierced by a troll with an unsteady hand.

"Oh, it's you lot" she said, allowing them in. "I thought that reactionary bastard Vetinari had sent his goons over to nail my ear to something else. Fascist bastard."

Angua, Conina and Cheery found themselves face-to-face with, or in Cheery's case looking up from underneath upon, a large glass fishtank full of formaldehyde in which was preserved half a cow. The label said "Portrait of the Zombie, Mr Slant".

"Yuk!" all three of them said in unison. Although Angua was saying it out of vegetarianism: the wolf half of her suddenly fancied a steak.

"Yes, it _is_ a bit passé, isn't it? One of Damien's. I'm just looking after it while he's indisposed."

"Indisposed?" asked Sally. The artist scowled again.

"Bloody Vetinari had him nailed by his ear to the doorway of the Classical Sculpture exhibition room at the Royal Museum." she said. "Bloody reactionary. He said it was so Damien could have ample time to study some _real _sculpture and learn from it."

She paused and screamed "_Don't touch that_!"

Sally had ambled over to a magical containment field, inside which was a maroon-red bust, looking as if it had been cast from raspberry ice.** (2)** The plinth was frosted with ice, and it was clear that the magical field was there to preserve the intense cold. The effect was rather spoilt by its also being used to chill a case of beer and several bottles of wine.

"You're a vampire?" the artist asked. "Best you come over here, then."

Sally's eyes asked a question. She looked mesmerised by the statue.

"Yes, it is." He artist said, firmly. "Human b-vord. It took ages for the artist to collect enough. And I'd prefer it _without _vampire tongue-tracks all over it, thank you very much! This is art, not a flaming ice lolly!" She firmly led Sally away.

"Danni, we've got a job for you" Conina explained, indicating Gladys.

Daniellarina Pouter, most recently nailed to a large unyielding piece of wood at the Patrician's order after her creation of the memorial statue to Teppicymon XXVIII (Viper House) **(3)** and his inhumation of 1,390 Djelibeybian monarchs, listened intently.

Sally produced an anatomical book, and a set of postcards impounded by the Watch on pornography grounds, which she'd spirited from an evidence locker.

Daniellarina took a deep drag of her cigarette and a long slurp of wine. "So you want me to make your golem fully functioning?"

"Best sculptress in the business!" Conina said.

"Coming from the best hairdresser, that means a lot!"

"OK. Right. It's every woman's right to have the best possible sex life. And I hear Dorfl's well hung, eh!" She nudged Angua in the ribs.

"Don't ask me, I haven't seen it. Sally got an eyeful. Where _is_ Sally?"

"Went outside for a ciggie and a breath of air" Cheery said.

Angua, who could smell the blood in the statue, despite it being deep-frozen by magic, nodded.

"I think I might join her." She was reminded of past Games in the Überwaldean snow. But those belonged to a long-dead part of her, now… and she was still a werewolf.

_Damn all modern artists! _she raged, inside_._

"Is it your will to be made fully female?" the artist asked Gladys.

"Yes. For My Marriage And My Husband. And For Me."

"OK" said the artist. "Listen, sister, I don't want to cause you pain. Is there any way of, you know, knocking you out for a couple of hours?"

"Remove My Chem.. That Way I Will Be Insensate For As Long As Is Needed."

Daniellarina grunted, and motioned her patient to lie on the trolley normally used to run artworks into the big kiln. She took up one of the photos and studied it at leisure. Then requested Cheery to remove Gladys' chem from her head. The light went out in the golem's eyes as the sculptress, working from the photo, got to work. After a while she reached for a drill. Angua winced and went to join Sally in the alley.

______________________________________--

Several hours later, the trolley was pulled out of the kiln. The chem was carefully returned to the inside of Gladys' head. She sat up, cooling naturally, and inspected herself in the mirror.

"Fully functioning!" the sculptress boasted. The other women nodded at the skill that had been used to create the female equivalent of what Nobby had provided for Dorfl. She had even thinned out and re-modelled Gladys' clay _here_ and _here_, whilst shaping her body out _here_ and _here_ with additional clay to give the golem a more recognisably feminine shape, with a noticeable waist and wider, fuller, hips, As a final courtesy touch, Gladys had also been provided with well-sculpted clay breasts that were, Angua had to admit it, entirely in proportion with the rest of her. The golem would never be a pole-dancer at the Pink Pussycat club, but she now looked completely and unambiguously female. In her way, Gladys was a work of art.

"That's got to be worth a free hairdo, Conina!"

"You've got it, Danni" the hairdresser agreed.

"And I'm invited to the wedding?"

"Yes." Said Gladys. "Thank You, This Plastic Surgery Is A Miracle!"

The artiste smiled, looked smug, and reached for another bottle of wine.

"Funny thing. I do my best work when I'm pissed." she said, reflectively.

________________________________________-

The wedding was a runaway success. Bride and groom left Small Gods together to pass under the traditional ceremonial arch made up of sword-bearing Watchmen on one side, and Post Office girls on the other. Miss Maccalariat had lost her opposition to Dorfl on being asked to be joint Matron of Honour alongside Adorah Belle Dearheart, and in lieu of parents, Moist von Lipwig (blinking at the sight of Miss Dearheart as bridesmaid) had given the bride away. Otto Chriek of the times took the wedding photos, and Sacharissa Cripslock was on hand to write it up for the paper. And in accordance with accepted tradition and practice, Adora Belle caught the bouquet.

Later on at the reception, held at Lady Sybil's insistence at Ramkin Manor, Vetinari had taken Vimes, Lipwig and Adora Belle aside for a private chat.

"A most pleasant day," he said, "but I trust this is going to be a rare occurrence among our golem population?"

"You have nothing to be worried about, my lord," Adora Belle said, reassuringly. "The working golems discussed it among themselves at length on a recent Holy Day, and agreed that it's right and proper that two of their number should do this. They agree that special circumstances apply that make Dorfl and Gladys pretty much unique among the golems. They won't stand in the way of any other golems who want to become properly gendered, but I really doubt any of them want to. They're all happy to stay neuter and learn what it is to be a fully male or female golem at second hand."

She paused, and lit a cigarette.

"I don't think any of them want the extra complication, to be honest. They're a conservative people, my lord. A lot of them refused tongues when the offer was made and prefer to stay mute and talk with slates. They're hardly likely to want this _plastic surgery_, are they?"

Vetinari nodded.

"The thought occurs to me that like any other newly married couple, they're sooner or later going to want children. How on earth will they manage that?"

"The golems' last experience of creating a child was a catastrophe, sir." Vimes said. "They won't be in a hurry to repeat that?"

"I don't know, though" said Moist. "All it needs is some clay and a priest with knowledge to write a short simple chem.. They could _simulate_ conceiving and raising a child."

"Possibly, Moist. Only possibly."

____________________________________-

Fellow residents at the Tump Tower Hotel that night were repeatedly awoken in the night by a noise that they could have sworn was like terracotta plant-pots rolling around a garden, and being clanged together in a high wind. It mystified them, but the general consensus was that there must be something wrong with the plumbing…

__________________________________________-

Dorfl laid back in the bed and reflexively lit a troll cigarette, a vice he'd picked up from fellow Watchmen. Gladys rolled back against him with a terracotta _clang_.

"That Was Amazing, My Love!" He Said.

"You Weren't So Bad Yourself, Darling. That Was Worth Waiting For!"

________________________________________--

And in time, the inevitable happened.

"Run that past me again, Gladys" Moist von Lipwig requested, not quite believing.

"I Believe I Am Pregnant, Mr Von Lipwig. I Require Time Off For Maternity Leave."

And elsewhere in the city:-

"Let's get this straight, constable Dorfl. You believe that the sex discrimination laws mean that you should be allowed paternity leave at least on a par with what your wife receives from the Post Office...

"That Is Correct, Commander Vimes"

________________________________-

Moist von Lipwig and Commander Vimes jointly paid for their respective golems to be seen by Doctor John Lawn, a man who had made his early medical reputation as resident gynaecologist and specialist in "Women's Medicine" to the Seamstresses' Guild, and who was indeed still a honorary Guild member on that basis.

Adora Belle, who'd tagged along, was forthright in her opinion, as always. She voiced the opinion Vimes and Lipwig could not bring themselves to speak:

"Nobody would love it more than me if it turned out to be true, Doctor, but it's got to be delusion. A phantom pregnancy of some kind. Between us we can break it to her gently…"

"Mossy" Lawn had nodded, and had gone to examine possibly the strangest patient he had ever seen.

Twenty minutes later, he came back to his office, whimpered slightly, and banged his head gently on the wall, an affectation he had picked up from Vimes.

"I don't believe it. I don't bloody well believe it. Gods alone know how. Or why." He had said, through gritted teeth. "And I don't have the faintest bloody idea as to the anatomical processes involved. But it's true. She's not imagining it. You're going to hear the clatter of little ceramic feet. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to clacks a very special midwife."

He paused.

"I've got to ask her to come here all the way from Lancre, put her up for an unspecified period, her _and_ her bloody cat, and then she'll need paying. But she's the very best in the business for the more…unusual…cases. Will you two gentlemen underwrite her expenses?"

"Of course", Vimes and Moist found themselves saying together.

And despite all probability and in denial of the accepted rules of behaviour for baked clay, Gladys grew larger. She also developed a craving for cocktail onions and coal. Miss Maccalariat watched over her with maternal protectiveness. The other Post Office girls fussed over her.

When the moment seemed right, the midwife arrived, landing her broomstick expertly in the hospital grounds. A large evil-looking one-eyed tomcat slunk after her as she introduced herself to Dr Lawn.

"Ow'do. I'm Gytha Ogg. Witch and midwife".

They shook hands.

"I know you're an exceptional doctor, Mr Lawn, else you wouldn't have sent for me. Most of you people have your heads rammed up your own bums, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Not at all, especially as you're right! I'll introduce you to the patient."

Mrs Ogg went strangely quiet and said only "Bloody hellfire!" afterwards. "I can see why you called for me!"

"The best in the business, mrs Ogg. Your reputation tells me you can deliver any foetus anywhere to any mother. I need that skill. This mother needs that skill."

"OK. I'll be stayin' at Rosie Palm's. She knows to expect me. I hear as how you're known there?"

"Long professional association, Mrs Ogg!"

Lawn paused.

"Oh, and _try_ to stop your cat doing _that_ indoors?"

The time for the birth came.

Dorfl found himself sidetracked to the waiting room, the fate for expectant fathers, with Detritus, Fred Colon and Sam Vimes for company.

After an hour, the waiting room door crashed open, and all four looked up expectantly. It turned out to be Miss Maccalariat, closely followed by Adora Belle Dearheart.

"Am I too late?" Miss Maccalariat exclaimed, in a most anxious voice. Adora Belle lit another cigarette, registering she was in just about the only part of the hospital where smoking was permitted.

The golem radiated worry and concern, which his three colleagues, two of them fathers, sought hard to allieviate. Detritus had brought several packets of troll cigarettes, and Dorfl had smoked through two full packs, pacing a worn track in the carpet, before a smiling nurse entered the steaming smoky fug of the waiting room. By now, even Miss Maccalariat was smoking.

The nurse waved the smoke from in front of her face, coughed heavily, then said "Mr Dorfl, please come this way!"

"Is It A Boy, Nurse?" he asked. "Or A Girl?"

"Yes and yes." the nurse said. "You've got twins, Mr Dorfl!"

Followed by a barrage of backslaps he hardly felt, the new father went to meet the clay of his clay, On the way he passed Nanny Ogg, who sat on the top stair smoking her pipe, and who said to him:

"That has to be the weirdest bloody birth I have ever attended. You've got a boy and a girl, by the way."

"Thank You, Mrs Ogg." Dorfl said, and went to see Gladys, the clay of his clay, and the rest of his life. She laid happily on the reinforced bed, holding a swathed bundle in each arm, and smiled at her husband as he came in…

* * *

**(1) **Snooker and billiards, of course. What sort of balls did you think I meant?

**(2) **As anyone familiar with New British Art will tell you, the disgusting artworks in Daniellarina Pouter's studio (for it is she) actually do exist on Roundworld. The half-cow in the fishtank AND the self-portrait bust cast in the artist's own blood. As ms Pouter, who is nailed to a post by her ear in **Thud! **for perpetrating Modern Art where Vetinari can see it, appears to be modelled on _enfante terrible_ Tracey Emin, it only appears fair for Damien Hirst to get a look-in.

**(3) **See** Pyramids **for the canon, and my novella **The Graduation Class** for the fuller tale of Teppic's commemorative statue in the Assassins' Guild museum. (ref. Chapter Eleven)


End file.
